Treacherous Twenty-Something
by nottonyharrison
Summary: Life's full of complications, and for Stephanie Plum, adding another into the mix is just another day in the life of Trenton's favorite bounty hunter. After a summer of rocket launchers, cement shoes, bingo, and escaped giraffes, she's ready to take a desk job for a few weeks, but when her friend, mentor and... occasional something else asks her to keep tabs on her own father...
1. Prologue

_I originally started writing this under a different account and have decided to pick it back up again under my regular one. It's a bit different from my uszhe - I'm having a crack at writing in the style of the books. My intent with this is for it to feel like you're reading an actual Numbers Novel just with more character development and less stagnation, so wish me luck!_

 _I started this way back after book 21 came out so now obviously it's become out of sequence, hence I have retitled it. This story itself is rated T, but if you want to read any sexytimes interludes, please do let me know, and I'll write an extended scene that will fit with the story, but post it as a separate fic._

 _Please note: this story will contain elements of Stephanie/Ranger, Stephanie/Joe, and Stephanie/Lester._

 **Prologue**

...

There are few things in life I enjoy more than cake. Not being dead is a choice I would make over cake - unless I'm in a dumpster buried below a layer of deli garbage - death is far better than smelling like day old baloney. Specific kinds of cake, in particular my mom's pineapple upside-down cake, are better than the general concept of cake. I'd like to eat Ranger or Morelli like a slice of cake sometimes, but only if I've been cake deprived for an extended period.

Really what I'm saying, is cake is the pinnacle of enjoyment. Better than booze, sex, or illegal substances, and only hazardous when combined with certain variables. Considering my genetics seem to be okay, and today I was able to buckle my belt one notch tighter than yesterday, I'm doing okay in the variables department.

My name is Stephanie Plum. I'm thirty-four years old, drive a 1992 Nissan Sunny, and all my relationships - romantic or otherwise - are worthy of a telenovela. I'm a train wreck who has her image plastered on the side of every bus stop in the Burg, thanks to my not-so-chosen career as Vincent Plum Bail Bonds' sole bounty hunter. I'm also currently trying to decide between the gluten free chocolate cake with an inch of frosting on the top, and an enormous passionfruit and lemon monstrosity, that looks as if it has an entire industrial sized tub of cream cheese icing as the filling.

"The gluten free is basically just chocolate, butter and sugar with some other shit to make it all cakey-like. It's not healthy or nothin'. Don't go feelin' bad just because it's got _gluten free_ in the name."

Lula is the filing clerk at the bonds office. She used to spend her days having sex for cash to pay for her Ferragamos, nowadays she chases after criminals in the Ferragamos, thanks to her aversion to any kind of actual filing, and a disturbing episode that we don't tend to talk about much. Lula is big, black, and probably the coolest person I know. She too, enjoys cake.

"Yo yo, don't go squishin' that chocolate cake in next to the cherry pie. I like my cherry pie chocolate free thank you very much. Stick that baby in another box, I get contaminated cherry pie, I know where you live, Jenny Cipriani. Givin' me one more box than your boss says is okay gonna be the least of your problems."

Lula is also very protective of cherry pie.

Jenny hurriedly grabbed another cake box from beneath the counter and put the pie in it, handing it off to Lula, who promptly passed it to the enormous man next to her. Everyone calls him Tank, which I'm assuming is on account of his size. It could be something to do with an actual tank, I guess, seeing as he's ex military. Regardless, his real name is something French and fancy sounding, and he takes up most of the space in the Tasty Pastry queue line. He tucked the pie box under one arm, and happily continued drinking his Mango Guava juicebox, while Lula paid for her haul.

Jenny then turned to me, and I ordered the gluten free chocolate cake. I'd been feeling a bit bloated recently, and gluten seemed as good as anything to blame it on. To balance out the chocolate, I also ordered a slice of the lemon and passionfruit. I wasn't prepared to lose out on it over some bloating, which could just as easily be attributed to PMS.

I stuck my finger in the icing, shoved the glob in my mouth, and decided it was definitely PMS.

Lula and Tank got in the front of the black Discovery parked outside, and I trailed after them, trying not to get cream cheese on my black tank top. I was dusting powdered sugar off my chest as I got in the SUV, momentarily forgetting about the fourth occupant, who was leering at me in a way that could only be described as creeptastic.

"Keep looking at me like that, Scoletti, and Tank's boot will accidentally connect with your balls."

Jerry Scoletti was the latest cretin to cross my path, and I was no longer in the capture just for the income boost. He'd started out as a high bond FTA, and had eventually become another in a long line of stalkers and people out do do harm against my person. Jerry was a rapist and a suspected serial murderer, who my scumbag cousin Vinnie should never have bailed out in the first place. He was also the son of Vinnie's wife's half sister. It sounds like a tenuous connection, but when the meat in the connective tissue is a guy called Harry the Hammer, you tend to not ask too many questions.

"Man, I sure would love one of those treats you've got in there." Jerry's eyes weren't on my box of cake, so I zapped him with my taser. He'd be drooling into the leather upholstery for the remainder of the short trip to Trenton PD.

"You still want me to get creative with his nuts?" Tank put the car in gear and drove off, not waiting for my response.

"I got a cock ring in my purse for emergency situations. You need the magic touch to get it off, even if the dick's done for the evening, it's a bit tight for anyone with equipment bigger than a number two pencil. You give me the rest of that passionfruit cake and I'll put it on him before he wakes up. I haven't had a reason to bust it out since I was a ho, but this asshole deserves to have his dick fall off for what he did to them girls."

Tank grimaced, but nodded. I think he was relieved Lula never tried it out on him when they were an item.

"If you want to get on the wrong side of Harry, then be my guest. I'm just going to stick with zapping him for now."

"Harry don't scare me. He don't scare Tank either. Does he, Tank?"

Tank grunted and kept driving.

"I bet he don't scare Ranger. Nothin' scares Ranger."

Lula's right. Scoletti wouldn't scare Ranger even a tiny bit. The only thing that scares Ranger is commitment. Commitment, and trans-fat laden foods.

Ranger is tall, built, dangerous, and a large part of my ongoing Spanish soap opera. He started out as my mentor, became my friend, and has caused me more sexual frustration than he's resolved. He's one of two men in my life who are as bad for me as they are perfect.

The other is Joe Morelli. He's a cop, and spends most of his life worrying the next homicide he attends is going to feature me in either a body bag, or a jail cell. I'm currently living with him while my apartment is being redecorated, following an incident with a rocket launcher and a vertically challenged man with an anger problem. If the best way to describe my relationship with Ranger is frustrating, Morelli is a rollercoaster. We've been on and off more times in the last few years than I've had destroyed cars. Which is to say a lot, because my car gets destroyed about once every two weeks. Sometimes more frequently if if there's stalkers, murderers, or angry short guys involved.

This week, my car had lived to survive another day. After collecting the body receipt for Scoletti, Tank dropped Lula and I off at the bonds office, where my Sunny sat in all its early nineties rustbucket glory. Lula got out of the Discovery and stood with the door open for a few moments.

"I swear, Plum. Every time you trade up, the only thing that's bein' upgraded is the rust factor."

I climbed out of the SUV and pulled off the FLAC vest I'd been wearing, thanking Tank for the loaner and the helping hand as I moved around the car to put it with the rest of his kit. Lula was already sashaying away, she hadn't worn a vest, despite Scoletti's high risk nature, claiming it ruined the lines of her leopard print and bright yellow bustier. I was inclined to disagree, as the bustier took away from the pink hot pants with gold trim that were barely covering her generous posterior. Tank leaned around the drivers seat just before I closed the back door.

"Ranger wants to know if you can help out at the office for a few days. Said something about needing your Burg expertise for a sensitive client."

I frowned. "Has he suddenly forgotten how to use a phone?"

Tank shrugged, and I slammed the door and headed for the bonds office, shouting out my agreement as I walked. Tank roared off, and I stomped into the building and flopped down on the cheap vinyl couch. Connie Rossoli, the office manager, looked up from her tabloid and made an expectant face.

"Well?"

"Well what?" I asked.

"Lula said you had some kind of incredible cream cheese cake that I could probably take off your hands, on account of your bloating issue."

I groaned. I had left the cake in the Discovery. "The bloating was from PMS. Besides, I gave the rest of the cake to Tank."

"What about that slice of chocolate what you had in there. You give that to Tank too?" Lula was incredulous. "That man's got enough chocolate hunk already, you don't need to be facilitating his transition from hunk to chunk, you know what I mean?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and was about to share Tank's parting remark, when the door opened, and in walked six feet of Cuban magnetism. He nodded at Connie and Lula, before fixing his gaze on me.

"Babe."

Oh boy.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

When I was eight, my mother took me shopping for a new pair of sweatpants. I found two pairs that I desperately wanted. One was bright pink, and had the word _radical_ spelled out along one leg. The other pair were some Adidas stirrup pants - you know the ones, they were popular way back when, the ones that only came in blue or black, and had the stripes all the way down both legs.

Anyway, I wasn't allowed both pairs of pants. I ended up choosing the pink ones, but for years after, I always wanted a pair of those goofy Adidas things. Even when they weren't cool any more I still wanted them, and I did eventually buy a pair, but they were cursed. Lost them at the pool at the community center two weeks after I bought them. I still wore the damn pink awesome pants until they weren't much more than a pair of booty shorts.

Ranger is the Adidas pants. He's classic and understated, but you can still see the quality. And when you lose him at the pool, walking home in your wet towel feels pretty shitty, until you realize that in the long run, the pants probably wouldn't be as comfortable as the pink flannel shorts that, considering the way they started out, turned out a lot better than expected. I know, comparing a man to a pair of sweatpants is kind of ridiculous, but if the analogy works I'm not going to complain.

Joe Morelli is the Pink Awesome Pants. He used to be flashy and a bit over the top, but eventually he became more comfortable, and kind of hard to let go. The sequins are long gone, and every now and then there's been some emergency pants surgery required, but he goes the distance.

Now at this point, the Adidas classics are walking through the door to Vinnie's office, and I was still stuck on 'Babe' after my sweatpants daydream. Connie had gone back to her copy of _OK!_ and Lula was enjoying her chocolate-free cherry pie far too much, even for my less than polite company. I was smarting a bit about Ranger heading straight for Vinnie, when the door opened again, and one of his employees stepped into the room. He spotted me and made a beeline for the couch, flopping down heavily enough to make the cheap frame groan under his six foot three frame, and elbowing me in the ribs.

If Ranger is a pair of Adidas classics, and Morelli is some worn out but still lovable pink bling pants, Lester Santos is a pair of too tight yoga pants, that look great, but pinch in all the wrong places.

"What's up, Steffie-P? Seen any good rocket launchers lately?"

I rolled my eyes and pulled my phone out of my pocket. Lula leaned around me, mouth still full of pie, and responded for me. "That there's not funny. Stephanie here's been under some serious pressure. How would you like it if you had to share your apartment with the angriest midget this side of the equator?"

"I take no part in a conversation that refers to Briggs in that way. I value my sanity, thanks." While my apartment was being repaired, I was loaning it to Randy Briggs, the man who had been the cause of the rocket. I thought it was a good idea to let him sleep on my couch while we thought one of my FTAs was trying to murder him. Turned out it wasn't just my skip who was trying to off him, although if you ever met Briggs, you would understand why. I flicked the specks of pie that had flown out of Lula's mouth off the screen of my phone, and managed to keep up a facade of complete boredom, despite Santos' irritating shuffling as he tried to get comfortable.

"He ain't here, I'm gonna call that little runt whatever the hell I like seein' as there's no threat of biting or kickin'." Lula sat back, and ate another forkful of cherry goop. I flicked through my twitter feed, while Santos flirted with Connie, and Lula moved on to the chocolate cake in the other box.

I've only crossed paths with Santos a few times, but he's made an impression on every occasion. He was part of the crew the first time I joined Ranger and his Merry Men, in an ill-advised attempt to earn some cash to keep me in pizza and Froot Loops. He didn't say much, but what he did say made me understand how far in over my head I was. Over the past few years, I've spent some time working on and off for Ranger, and all of his employees have become reasonably familiar. Tank and Ram I would count as friends, Hector is terrifying, but a sweetheart. Lester is a pair of yoga pants riding up my buttcrack.

My internal monologue was interrupted by the door to the office opening, and Ranger strode out. He smiled at me, and nodded his head at Santos. "Time to go."

Lester grinned at me, and stood up. "See you tomorrow, partner."

"Wait, hang on a minute. What's happening tomorrow?" I glanced at Ranger. "I haven't agreed to doing anything tomorrow."

"You're working for me tomorrow."

"Since when?"

"Since tomorrow." Ranger opened the door and left the bonds office. I turned to Lula and grabbed the last bite of cake from between her fingers. She opened her mouth to protest.

"Don't even." I said, through the cake. The piece was larger than I had realized.

Connie still hadn't looked up from her magazine.

The office door flung open, and Vinnie stormed out, closely followed by Harry the Hammer. He pointed at me and then at Lula.

"You. You two." He pointing had turned to prodding the air in Lula's general direction. " _You._ You should be filing. And you." The finger was back on me now, and I looked at Connie and shrugged. "You should be out chasing skips. Why the hell are you sitting on my couch?"

"No skips."

Vinnie snarled and stormed out the door. Harry handed Connie an envelope, and followed Vinnie without a backwards glance.

"Yeesh. What's got up his quack-hole?"

"I don't know about you, but I don't think bein' in a room with Ranger _and_ The Hammer, is Vinnie's ideal way to spend part of his afternoon." Lula punctuated her observation by sucking off the last of the cake from her fingers, and lobbing the boxes in the direction of the trash can behind Connie's desk. "Although Ranger alone… you know what, I'm feeling the need for some details. Stephanie, gimme the details, you know after I've had cherry pie my libido goes all living vicarious-like. I need me some vicarious sexual escapades."

I ignored her, and flicked open my emails. There were three unread messages, all from Rangeman LLC, all titled _short term contract_ or similar, all dated a week and a half ago. I closed the app without opening any of them, and tucked my phone back in my pocket.

"I'm heading out. My mom's making lasagna for dinner." I stood up, and grabbed my pocketbook from where it rested on the floor. There was a smear of chocolate cake on the side, and I held the bag out to Lula. She wiped the chocolate off and ate it. I made a face. "That's disgusting."

"Hey, you offered it to me. I gotta keep my figure in fine form, can you imagine how much it would cost to replace my wardrobe?"

I slung the bag over my shoulder, and looked expectantly at Connie. She shook her head. No skips to take, meant no income for me for the foreseeable future. I waved behind me as I left, and got into the Nissan rustbucket, turned the key, and pulled out into traffic.

The bonds office isn't far from my parents' house, and seeing as I was at a loss for what to do for what was left of the afternoon, I was an hour or so early for dinner. I could hear the cacophonous noise coming from half way down the block, and when I pulled up in front of the modest duplex, the sound had gone from noise, to ear-splitting shrieks interspersed with more feedback than an episode of The View.

By the time I made it inside, the din was unbearable. I found a pair of earplugs in a side pocket of my bag, and shoved them in my ears as I walked into the kitchen. My mother was standing at the sink rinsing a lettuce with a glass of iced tea on the counter next to her. Going by her cheery disposition, and a clear lack of earplugs, the iced tea was loaded.

"What's going on?" My own voice was muffled in my head, and my mother turned towards me, eyes vaguely glassy. Her mouth moved, but I couldn't hear her words." _WHAT?_ "

She grabbed the shopping list off the refrigerator, wrote a few words, and turned it back towards me. _Band practice._

I shook my head and turned back towards the stairs. A year or so back, Lula had joined a band with a friend of mine, a transvestite by the name of Sally Sweet, and my Grandma Mazur had decided the whole deal sounded like a blast. Judging by the wailing coming from upstairs, I figured grandma had hooked back up with some of the old crew.

The sight that met me in her room was less of a shock for me, than it would have been for someone from a family that wasn't completely barking. Grandma was standing on her bed, which had been pushed to the corner of the room, microphone against her mouth as she screamed into it. Sally was doing something complicated with a guitar and about a dozen pedals with lights flickering fast enough to induce a fit, and the other two - a bass player, and someone on a set of electronic drums - looked as if they had just been kicked out of a Slipknot concert for being too hardcore.

I shut the door, and headed back downstairs, waved to my father, who was watching television with a massive pair of industrial earmuffs on, and walked out the door and back to my car. Not even the promise of my mom's lasagna would convince me to risk that kind of level of hearing loss.

I drove to Morelli's place, which was sort of my place I guess, and was greeted by his big orange retriever doing a poop on the front lawn. Morelli was standing on the stoop with a plastic bag. I got out of the car, and stood by it for a few moments, waiting for Bob to finish doing his business, and made a face.

"Out the front, really?"

Morelli swung the bag of poop around in a circle and moved closer to me. "Yes, out the front. There's nowhere left for him to go out back, considering you haven't been picking them up."

I poked my tongue out, and headed for the front door. Normally when Bob needed to do his business, I took him on a short trip to the home of the latest person to their nose too far in _my_ business. If Bob had been going in the backyard, that wasn't on me.

"What's for dinner?" I put my pocketbook in the small closet in the entryway, so it didn't end up being pooped out or puked up by Bob, and went straight into the living room. "And how come you're home so early, anyway? Don't you have murderers to arrest?"

Morelli sat next to me, and slung his arm over my shoulder. Bob sat down at my feet, and put his butt on my shoe. "No murders this week, no serious assaults. No rapes, shootings, or kidnappings. Things are quiet."

Being involved with a cop while you're a fugitive apprehension agent can sometimes be a little bit interesting. In the course of our hot and cold relationship, we've been ships passing in the night, pseudo partners in investigations and, at the very start of my career, fugitive and pursuer. Both being at loose ends though - that was a new one. I looked up at him and smiled.

"You wanna go have sex?"

"Is that even a question?"


End file.
